Points of Authority
by Hbrooks
Summary: Friendship, fear, pain, death and redemption.  These are what make up the 72nd Hunger games.  Fifteen-year-old Blaise Calder is just a gentle farmer boy from district 10; does he have what it takes to come out alive when there's no mockingjay to save him?
1. A Family Affair

**Chapter 1:**

**A family affair.**

_In which there are small hazards,_

_a pile of children, scrambled eggs _

_and a cow._

**Blaise Calder, District 10.**

"Blaise!"

…

"Blaaaiiisseeee!"

I was jolted awake when three little bodies cannon-balled on top of me, but exhaustion made me roll onto my stomach and bury my face in my pillow.

"Blaise. Blaise. Blaise."

"I'm trying to sleep, Merril."

"Gramma wants you to go out and milk Sissi, Blaise!"

I glanced over at the clock on my bedside table, pushing my bangs, which were lopsided from sleep out of my face. "It's five in the morning, for Gawd's sake." I blinked a few times, lashes clearing the sleep away, and felt my heart sink. God. Today was the Reaping. The seventy-second reaping…

My little brother crawled on top of my back and started bouncing, as if I had never protested. "Come _on_, Blaise!"

My sister, Delphine started poking my arm. "Aw, come on! Just do it real quick and then you can eat with us; Pepper's making breakfast."

My cousin plopped down on my legs, her round face pulled into a smirk. "Oh, and your girlfriend's here."

I gently pushed Merril off my back and pulled myself into a sitting position, rubbing my eyes and acknowledging the bad taste in my mouth. "Wait, you mean Nova? She's not my girlfriend, Palla."

The seven-year old giggled. "Nova an' Blaise, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-" She couldn't finish because I grabbed her around the waist and began tickling her, which was a bad choice. The minute she started her high-pitched giggling, the other little ones, Paisley, Pavi, Parsnip, Peter and Pansy all came surging into the room I shared with two of my older cousins and tackled me, roughly pinching me with tiny fingers and burying me in a pile of little overalls, brown hair and gap teeth. Yes, that was my family; enormous, loud and filled with hazards; you may call them children, but I call them hazards. Affectionately, mind you; I loved them all to pieces. I had been a big brother to them since I moved into my grandparent's farm six years ago, and since their Dad, my uncle Yancey, was a deadbeat that got his house foreclosed several years back and moved in with Grandma and Grandpa, and considering he was a drunk, I was usually the one taking care of them. But life in our section of District 10 was charmed to say the least. Then again, anything was better than living in one of the ghettos; even my uncle had it easy, considering all he really did was work occasional odd jobs and hang out in the guest cottage and drink like a fish. My grandparents lived on a little ranch house in the middle of our dairy farm, and I'm just happy they took me in. I certainly admire them for it; after all, I had been only nine when it happened, my sister, Delphia was only one and poor little Merril was just a newborn. Neither of them remembered Mom and Dad; sometimes, I find myself forgetting them, too. I don't like to… I loved them and I missed them but…

"Alright, alright, I'm getting up. Just lemme put on some real clothes and I'll be out in a second."

Grandma rang the breakfast bell and the children dispersed. I swung my legs over the edge of my bed and stretched, reaching up my arms and feeling my previously dormant muscles unlock and readjust themselves. I then got to my feet and shuffled over to my tattered old dresser, rummaging through it until I found some semi clean clothes that weren't caked in dirt; I'd have to change into some nicer ones later, since it was such a _special_ day today. I pulled my trousers on over my undershorts and slipped into one of Palmer's old shirts which, of course, was too big on me, but I rolled the long sleeves up to my elbows, snapped on some suspenders, pulled on some boots and made my way towards the kitchen.

Considering we were a pretty well off family, our house was a decent size. It was an old-fashioned sort of estate, but despite this it was well kept and in prime shape. The façade of the home was painted a nice shade of cream and the wood-shingled roof was a great place to sit in late afternoon, for it provided the best view of the sunset; I could see it easily, because when I was so high up there were no troublesome oak trees or wheat fields to hinder my sight. The inside of our house had floral wallpaper, old-fashioned white lace curtains, a small, cozy parlor, a kitchen that always smelled like flour and cinnamon, a porch and four bedrooms that the cousins and my two siblings shared, and then Grandma and Grandpa's room down at the end of the hallway.

As I emerged into the kitchen, the crisp smell of cooking eggs and cheese wafted into my nose and warmed me up. Grandma was churning the butter and my cousin Pepper was frying and scrambling the eggs, pouring the cream into the pan and sprinkling parsley. She turned around and smiled at me, her cheeks rosy from the steam. She was only twelve, but she did almost as much around the house as I did, if not more. Pepper Yancey was slender, like me, with a diminutive build, a heart-shaped face, a button nose and big hazel eyes. Her coffee hair, which was several shades darker than mine, was always pulled back in two braids tied with the same blue and white polka-dot ribbons. I couldn't help feeling slightly startled at her cheery disposition; after all, this was her first reaping.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she said, sticking a spatula into the pan. "Hey, how does this taste?" She took a piece of the omelet onto the spatula and held it out to me. I snatched the rich eggs and ham and tasted it.

"Delicious as always; you never cease to amaze me," I told her, and she grinned.

"Oh, and Nova's waiting for you in the dining room."

I tried to hide my blush. "Oh, okay. Erm, thanks."

Grandma looked up from the butter churn and tucked the strands of grey hair that had come loose from her bun and bandana behind her ear. "Morning, darlin'. Your grandpa's out feeding the goats, so can you go out and milk Sissi for me?"

My little brother scampered into the kitchen and tugged at her apron. "Don't worry, Gamma, I told him, didn't I, Blaise?"

I reached down and ruffled the little boy's hair. "Sure did, buddy."

Grandma chuckled. "Thank you, Merril. Now will you be a dear and start juicing the oranges?"  
"Oranges? Where did you get those? They cost a fortune," I told her.

She handed the fruit down to my brother and waved him towards the grader. "Well," she said, "you know our Palmer recently proposed to little miss Elsa Cardale, right? Her papa owns the local grocery in town, so Mr. Cardale gave us a little family discount."

She winked and I laughed. "So if nothing else, we get cheap produce."

Grandma chuckled and I walked into the dining room, and saw my childhood friend sitting on one of the wicker chairs, fiddling with one of the little woven tassels that hung from the checkered tablecloth.

"Hey, Nova; what're you doing here so early?"

She started a bit and looked up, and when she realized it was me, she stood up. "Goodness, you scared me!" She laughed and ran a hand through her light brown hair. "Sorry for bothering you, Blaise. I just wanted to drop by for a chat before the… you know."

I nodded. _Yeah, just in case it's the last time we talk before one of us gets carted away to slaughter. _"Do you want to stay for breakfast?"

"Oh, I couldn't. It smells delicious, but it seems like there's more and more of you every time I come, and I don't want to impose."

Just then, Delphia came out of the kitchen with the plates with my cousin, Peter, following with the silverware, and began setting the table. "Aw, you should stay, Nova," Delphia said. "Merril's almost done with the orange juice; it's going to be so yummy!"  
Nova smiled and shook her head. "I'm sure it is, sweetie, but I just came to talk to your brother for a bit."

Grandma stuck her head into the dining room. "Do you want our cow to explode, Blaise? Go out and milk her!"

I sighed and put on my cap. "Wanna come?"

The cracks in the barn roof cast bars of sunlight across my face and back as I pulled up the stool, straightened the milk pale and began working old Sissi's udders. Nova sat off to the side on top of a bale of hey, stroking Harlow, the barn cat. She was wearing a pretty cotton blue dress with a lace collar and white stockings, her light hair pulled back in a bonnet. Us farmer folk dressed awfully simple; none of the fancy Capitol crap, no hoodies, no tennis shoes. The men wore trousers, button-up shirts over our undershirts, sturdy trousers with suspenders or denim overalls, working boots, and we choose between either big straw sunhats or caps. The women usually either wore simple dresses with bonnets, blouses with cotton or plaid skirts or, if they were going casual they'd dress similar to us. I liked it. It made life feel simple, easy, uncomplicated, even good sometimes, since most of the farmer families grew all of their own food and made a pretty nice profit selling our wool, meet, cheese or eggs to the towns people and the Capitol. The Yancey farm was the main importer of eggs, cream and butter. My last name was Calder after my father, but I lived with my Mom's side, and I was glad. I was just a country boy at heart, and always will be. But I could be taken away from all this so quickly…

"So I heard Palmer and the Cardale girl are engaged."

I nodded; glad to have something to thing about beside the games. "Yeah. I guess that big lug's more of a Casanova than I had thought."

"I think it's sweet. Where are they going to live?"

"Palmer's working on building a cottage up the road from here, since we can't possibly fit any more kids here. Eleven is enough, thank you."

She laughed. "Man, your Uncle Yancey really bred like a rabbit; nine- I mean, eight kids. Wow."

"You think? And I'm usually the one taking care of them."

"Don't pretend you don't love it; those little ones adore you."

I leaned back on the stool and gave old Sissi a pat on her rough hide. "I guess you're right. Hey, where's you're brother?"

Nova shrugged. "I never know where Cruz is. I just hope he'll make himself presentable for the Reaping."

"I…" I leaned against the cow's warm side and tried not to show my fear. "I'm scared. I don't want to be called, and I don't want any of my family or friends to be called, either. Any of us could go, Nova. It could be one of the twins, it could be Meta, it could be Emory, it could be us."

"Don't talk like that; we're only fifteen; the chances are awful low."

"That's what they said last year, and then both tributes were twelve and were slaughtered during the first ten minutes of the Games." I felt pain rush through me as I remembered those poor little children, with their great, sad eyes and their terrified little faces. Maybe it was just because I had taken care of my little siblings and cousins for as long as I can remember, but I can't see children in pain. In each of those tribute's faces, I see Merril's or Delphia's or Pepper's or Peter's.

Nova bit her lip. "I know it's awful… I'm scared for all of us."

"And you know what? This is Pepper's first year to be eligible."

"If her name got called, you know I'd volunteer."

I was startled. "You would? No, I don't want to think about it! Ugh… and what about Piper? He's fourteen now. And Palmer; this is his last year for eligibility, but what if it's him? He's going to have a family and a farm of his own soon! Christ…" I didn't want to mention Pol… Palmer's twin brother who went to the games two years ago when he was sixteen. Palmer had tried to step forward, but Pol hadn't let him. He had been such a sweet boy, and he got pretty far, too. He was one of the last five kids, and got his hand cut off in the process. But then he was stabbed to death by the Career who won. His girlfriend, Lila, who he had proposed to the day they met when he was five and had promised to marry, had been distraught, and Grandpa was never the same. Lila still came and visited with us frequently, but she didn't smile as much as she used to, and she would always stare at the empty seat that Pol had always sat in.

She reached forward and set a hand on my shoulder. "It's going to be okay, Blaise. Nothing's going to happen to any of us."

I met her gaze, her brown eyes boring into my green ones, and I managed a weak smile. "Thanks… I really hope you're right."


	2. Mechanism

**Chapter 2:**

**Mechanism.**

_In which there is preparation, a pillow, _

_a bit of swearing, names in a sphere_

_and a blasphemous embrace._

**Bonnie Markovitch, District 12.**

I stared up at my cracked ceiling, listening to my roommates breathing and mumbling in their sleep. Today was the day, wasn't it?

Yes it was.

I ran a hand through my blonde hair and sighed deeply. It was weird for a Seam kid to have blonde hair; my brother, Milo and I always got weird looks when we told people what part of town we're from. Being fifteen, my name has been entered in the ballot three times on my own, as was his, but both of us have been taking a tessaray each year since we were twelve, so that puts us at… six names each. A bit of a high number, if you ask me. The community home _says_ they feed all their children, but that's just a bunch of bullshit. What they actually do is live off the tessaray they force the kids to collect the day they turn twelve. Mind you, these aren't my words; I don't cuss. That's just what Milo said. He could be a little temperamental sometimes, though I couldn't really blame him; living in an orphanage for seven years does a number on a kid's optimism.

I was stirred from my thoughts by the bell's harsh ringing out in the hallway and the groans of the other children, begging for three more minutes. Hell, how about three more years? Nobody wanted to get up today. I heard Milo grumble and roll over in the bunk beneath me, and I could practically imagine him drooling all over his pillow as he dreamt of food. That's all boys ever thought about around here. That and sex.

"Get up, Milo," I called to my twin brother, stomping down on the mattress, sending showers of dust down on top of him.

"Make me," he muttered amiably.

"Alright, sunshine, I will," I said as I chucked a pillow down at him. He let out a surprised noise and rolled over a little to far and fell off the bed with a dull thud. He lay on the floor, trying not to smile, and I laughed. He attempted to maintain a disdainful face, blowing his ashen curls out of his grey eyes. "Damnit, Bonnie, why do you feel the need to do that? I was having the best dream…"

I smirked. "About kissing miss Siobhan Hamburg?"

He stuck out his tongue and chucked the pillow back at me, but I dodged it with ease and lit down the ladder, helping him up when I reached the ground. Milo was medium height and lean, like me, with ashen blonde hair that fell across his forehead in loose, somewhat disheveled curls, and his skin was the classic Seam brand of olive.

"Do you have a nice shirt for the Reaping today?" I asked as I dug through our shitty little dresser, trying to find a proper dress.

He lifted a tee-shirt out of the bottom drawer, but his face fell when he saw the massive hole in its shoulder. He stuck his entire arm through it and grimaced. "Gee, how the hell did I manage to tear a hunk out of my favorite shirt?"

I shrugged, feeling relief crash over me when I finally found my old yellow sundress. "Probably when you were wrestling with Altus last week. Here, how about this one?" Since we shared a drawer, I was usually the one who kept track of both of our clothes. I held up one of his old button-ups, and he slipped it on over his undershirt and trousers. Milo waited for me outside as I slithered into my dress and he helped me tie my bonnet over my hair. As we walked to breakfast, he looked me over. "Well," he said. "You don't look like a scruffy little ragamuffin anymore. At least not as much as before."

I bumped him with my shoulder, almost sending him into the wall. "You don't look like a supermodel either, I'll have you know."

Several older kids jostled us as they hurdled towards the mess hall, slobbering like dogs and laughing like drunks, but I didn't really notice. All I could think about was the reaping. Still, when Milo bumped me back and took off down the hallway and shouted that the last one to the cafeteria was a rotten egg, I couldn't help sprinting after him and tackling him before he made it to the door.

I sat with my brother, his friend, Altus Cursor and my friend, Kipcha Paylor at our usual table off to the corner of the hall. Mess was a perfect adjective, for it was simply a larger-than-average room filled with several rows of shabby picnic tables with ruddy tablecloths, a couple windows and a hole in the wall that the cook could stick her ladle through and slop that night's meal onto the waiting plates. About thirty other children sat around us, their voices and occasional spurts of uproarious laughter filled the room like the constant hum of honeybees in their hive. I honestly didn't like the place, though it was better than living with abusive parents. I'd gladly choose peeling wallpaper and bad food over black eyes any day. But someday, we were going to get out of there. I was going to be a book-keeper or a teacher, and Milo was going to learn how to become a peace-keeper, and we'd get a house together. He would probably end up marrying Kipcha, and as for me, I wasn't sure yet. But that was OK; I was only fifteen, so I didn't need to think about that too much. As long as nothing really bad happened for the next three years, we'd be able to get out of this place when we were eighteen and everything would be fine.

...Right?

"Hey, isn't that my shirt?" Milo snapped at Altus, who grinned and puffed out his chest a little.

"I thought we agreed it was too small for you."

"I want it back."

"No."

Milo looked tempted to chuck his mashed potatoes at his best friend, but he refrained and sat back and crossed his arms across his chest. "Jackass."

"Ass-licker."

"Turd."

I could never understand the relationship between boys. It was amazing how they could insult each other non-stop, yet still be closer than ever. It was a mystery.

"Are you nervous, Bonnie?"

I turned my attention to my friend. Her slender face was contorted with concern and her big doe eyes were distracted. She was probably more worried for Milo than herself; those two were shamelessly in love. I sighed and shook my head sullenly, cupping my chin in the palms of my hands. "Yes. Every year, it's the same. Kind of sucks that our district's mentor is a drunk."

She nodded, trying to smile. "Haymitch means well… you can't blame him for drinking so much, after what happened to him. Even though it was twenty-two ago, it must have scarred him pretty bad."

I shrugged. "Yes, I know, but I still wish he would at least try to get us through. We've only had three victors; one is dead and the other is crippled, so he's our only option."

For a moment, a wicked little thought passed through my head. _You shouldn't bad-talk him; there's a good chance that he could be the only thing standing between you and slaughter when you get picked. _I frowned at the thought, scowling at it. _Sticks to you,_ I told it and left it at that as I massaged my temples with my forefingers and tried not to cave in to my fear. I don't want to die.

Well, duh.

But still, it isn't an especially exciting feeling preparing yourself for the small chance of being chosen. When you're a community kid, an orphan or a throwaway child, it's everyone for themselves. Milo and I are an exception; we haven't been separated yet, and never will be if we get any say in the matter. We take care of each other, and even though we argue like a married couple and fight like… well, siblings, he's my partner and I'm his. While we don't have anyone to volunteer for us if we're chosen unless we get lucky and get one of the occasional trained volunteers, it's nice to know there's one person in the whole world that would die to protect you, as I would with him. Here, I'll paint you a small mental picture of the Markovitch twins, if you will:

Sunflower hair, dirt-smudged, heart-shaped faces, hungry eyes the color of fog. The boy is broad-shouldered and sinewy, the girl is slender like a whipcord and long-legged. His hair is curly, hers is straight. They are two parts of the same machine.

That was us. But as we strode down the cobblestone road towards Town Square, we looked less like a proud, finely tuned apparatus and more like two scrawny, scared shitless kids as we were jostled about by grey coats and bowler hats, mud-caked work boots trampling our toes, coal dust coating our lungs. Twelve was a miserable place, and as I looked at the decimated buildings, the first thing that came to my mind was the color gray. Everything… it was just… colorless. Never mind the women dressed in their Sunday best, what with their yellow sundresses and big hats who walked arm in arm with their husbands. Somehow, the kids lining up in the separation area just sucked the color right out of them. If I studied hard and let my imagination wander, I could almost see the colors leaking out of the women's faces; the pinks of their rouge, the vermilions of their lips, the turquoise of their bracelets, all dripping onto the blank concrete, forming a puddle of colors, mixing until they became brown. Even the gold heels, orange eye shadow and feathered hat of our escort, some lady named… something Trinket seemed to be caught in a permanent grayscale. Kind of like being trapped inside a black-and-white film.

I watched as the imaginary colors trickled down the gutters and into the storm drain.

"Bonnie. Bonnie. Bonnie!"

I blinked and shook myself out of my dismal reveries.

"Hello? Earth to Bonnie; we have to line up."

I glanced over at my brother. His olive face was drawn and his stormy eyes were concerned. I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. "Right. Sorry. See you when it's over."

He gave my shoulder an encouraging bump with his own. "Don't worry, it'll be fine."

He had no idea how wrong he was.

We separated into ages, and then again by gender, and as we stood in the center of town, I felt like a fish in a fish tank, stared down by distorted faces of people I thought I recognized, the world shaking as they tapped upon the glass. Mayor Undersee and his wife, a little wisp of a woman with fluffy hair and a haggard face sat atop the main platform, waiting for our mentor. Of course he was late. He was always late. The only other victor beside our active mentor also sat unobtrusively next to our new escort, his elderly face quizzical and curious. Sigma Forthrite was a spritely old man, still energetic at the ripe age of eighty-seven. He was wiry and vivid thing, with light, wrinkled skin, brisk hazel eyes and a slender face, and looked like he had been quite a handsome boy in his day. There was one more important thing about Sigma:

He won the first hunger games when he was only fourteen years old.

I honestly wished that he were our mentor instead of that lump of five o' clock shadow and bramble hair known as Haymitch Abernathy. When I had wondered aloud how on earth that man could have possibly won the games, Milo had answered simply and prudently:

"Maybe he threw up on all the other tributes after drinking himself into a stupor, and then they all drowned in his filth."

Oh Milo. His politeness had no bounds. I glanced over at my brother and saw him talking with one of the Mellark boys who stood with the sixteen's a row ahead of Milo. I believed his name was Till, and he and Milo were pretty good friends, therefore I had gotten to know the family. The mother was a troll, but their papa was nice, as was the youngest, Peeta, and the oldest, Ansel. Till was great, as well. Peeta was certainly the calmest; the rest of the boys were rowdy, and once during a routine berry-picking expedition several months ago, the two oldest got to arguing and soon all of us were sucked into one big, good-hearted wrestling match. I turned out to be pretty good at it, for when the dust settled, I had managed to get Ansel into a headlock. Since then, it was an ongoing joke between the oldest Mellark and I, and the eighteen-year-old often challenged me to arm-wrestling matches, though he almost always triumphed. But occasionally he would let me win and laugh as Till and Milo ridiculed him for loosing to a girl. Occasionally adults remarked how Milo and I looked as if we could be related to them, but that was what all non-blondes thought:

If two people were blonde, then they looked like siblings. Ha-hah.

But any Seam kid could tell the difference in a snap. Though my brother and I did have rather unconventional hair for low-class citizens, we were certainly no merchant kids. The hungry eyes and the olive skin could tell you that much. Ansel was tall and sturdy, with light blue eyes, flushed cheeks and pale blonde hair cut short by Till when he lost a bet. He was the even-tempered, levelheaded and stern one who didn't talk a whole lot unless he was with us or his brothers, much to the contrast to Till. Till was riotous and gregarious, always smiling and joking and throwing friendly punches at whatever poor soul that stood near him, and looked more like his younger brother, except for his rather willowy build and brown eyes. His face was homely and grinning, and his clumsy eyes were usually hidden behind a mop of blonde bangs. Peeta, on the other hand, was like a mixture of both. He was neither stocky nor slim, not stoic nor open, with big blue grey eyes and light hair. They were quite a group, and as long as they weren't giving me noogies or snickering, I enjoyed their company.

Finally, the people on the platform got to their feet when they caught sight of Haymitch. The man was still clutching his flask, taking pulls on it whenever he wasn't dragging on his cigarette, and he tripped several times on his way up the stairs. Our escort had a look on her vacant face that said, "Oh God. Here he is, just like every year" and Sigma just sighed and shook his head.

"Didja miss me, Effie darling?" Haymitch slurred, planting a sloppy kiss on her done-up cheek before staggering on to his seat and collapsing into what looked like a coma. Effie wiped the slobber off her face and attempted to regain her dignity before scampering over to the podium and turning on the microphone. The shabby television screens switched on and the news crews readied their cameras as she cleared her throat.

"Well," she tittered. "Now that everyone is present, we can go on with our big, big ceremony! Ladies first!"

"What a surprise," I heard Milo mutter.

The woman stuck a manicured hand into the sphere and rummaged around through the names. After a moment, she drew a slip of paper and unrolled it.

"Bonnie Markovitch!"

I blinked a few times. What? No, that wasn't possible.

"Bonnie Markovitch? Hello?" She called.

Suddenly, I saw my shocked face illuminated upon the cracked screens, and I managed to shut my jaw, which seemed to be hanging all the way down to the ground and step forward. I heard my brother shout my name, but everything sounded blurry and alien, as if I had just dunked my head into a pale of cold water. I walked to the center of the square and ascended the steps, waiting for the boys name to be called. I felt numb, as if it wasn't me standing here.

"Well aren't you a dear," Effie chortled, patting me on the shoulder. "You lucky ducky!"

I managed a weak smile and stared ahead.

"Alright, who's the lucky lad now? …Ronin Junning! Come on up here, darling!"

A small, thirteen-year-old boy stepped forward, his dark eyes wide and scared.

"I volunteer."

No. No! NO!

Oh!" Effie squealed. "Well, dear, I suppose that's alright. Nothing wrong with a few more eager souls to play in the games, am I right? What is your name?"

"Milo Markovitch."

I watched in horror as my twin brother advanced towards the stage, his face unbending, brows knitted together. The crowd let out a small gasp; twins! There were twins! As we faced each other, I gave him a desperate look that asked, "Why?"

As he brushed me to stand next to me, he leaned forward and whispered in my ear. "You've got my back, I've got yours, remember? You need someone to take care of you, don't you?"

I tried to hold back the tears as Effie called for applause. A few pitiful claps and some throat clearing was all to be heard. Before I knew it, the Mayor had finished the Treaty of Treason and told us to shake hands. We didn't. Instead, I lurched forward and threw my arms around my brother's neck, burying my head in his shoulder, and he held me tight, his arms forming a protective arc around me. I heard another series of gasps and shocked murmurings, but no-one tried to break us apart, and after a few moments, we pulled away from each other and faced our District, the cameras, the world. Haymitch made a snoring sound and mumbled something in his sleep, and I made eye-contact with the other victor. He bowed his head and lifted his hand, pressing middle and ring finger against his lips.

And so it has begun.


	3. Steps

**Chapter 3:**

**Steps.**

_In which there are squirming children,_

_a bumpy ride, lines, closing up._

**Blaise Calder, District 10.**

Our family wagon lurched and rattled as it rolled over potholes and ran over piles of horse droppings, and I almost fell out of my seat, for both my arms were filled with children. It was the only way I could keep them inside the cart.

Mr. Edelweiss, our ancient chestnut Clydesdale, ambled along ahead of us, his reins grasped by the firm hands of Grandpa, and seemed to be in no particular hurry to do anything except add more poop to the dirt road that lead into the heart of the District. He was probably one of the ugliest horses out there; so rotund that he resembled a block of lard, he had a crooked jaw, bowed-out legs and the energy of a sack of potatoes. And yet, Grandpa loved him, so he stayed. And stayed. That horse was older than I was by at least four years.

Pepper and Piper were talking softly amongst each other across from me, their nearly identical faces caved with worry. Especially Piper's; he had a bad foot after Mr. Edelweiss took an unknowing step backward onto his bare foot when he was eleven. I couldn't imagine anything happening to any of them; they were too important to get hurt. And I knew neither of them could really live without the other; they weren't twins, but they were only seven months apart, since Pepper was born prematurely early by the same mother as Piper. They were the only cousins who weren't half siblings, beside me, Delphia and Merrill and Palmer and Pol, and that didn't even count, since Pol…

Piper's face crumpled slightly, which brought me back from my thoughts. He really was scared… he would be thirteen in a few days. Too young to be worrying about this. All of us were. Everything I've been put up against since the tuberculosis epidemic six years ago has been way above the standard child's maturity level. How many nine-year-olds have to go to two funerals at once, a combined service for both of their parents? Writing a eulogy can really dampen the pep of a third-grader. How many eleven-year-olds have had to watch their cousin's head getting chopped off by careers? How many thirteen-year-olds have had to drop out of school to run a farm? How many fifteen-year-olds are supposed to take care of seven little children, with no help from their real father?

Not as many as one would think.

At 7:32, our cart rattled into town square, though we had to travel an extra two blocks to find a post that wasn't already filled with horses and wagons. Hardly anyone had automobiles here; if you were lucky, you had a horse and buggy, and if you weren't, you had your legs. The rich folk did have rather flamboyant carbon-powered carriages that didn't need horses, like the mayor, a rather… robust woman by the name of Tonya Littergarb, and her wisp of a husband, who seldom spoke and simply sat next to her during town gatherings.

The center of District 10 was a bustling place with cobblestone roads weaving through a variety of different houses, that varied from dapper storefronts and jolly brick houses, to merchant carts and smaller, thatched roofs and their wooden sides. One had to keep an eye on the street, since an odd pig or goat would often wonder loose and cross right in front of your wagon, and on most days, it was filled with the shouts of street-peddlers selling their goods, the high-pitched squeals of children and chickens squawking, dogs yapping and horses pooping. We weren't called the livestock district for nothing; animals came out of the yin-yang here.

I leaned forward and clapped a hand on Piper's thin shoulder. "Don't worry," I said softly, "It's going to be fine. I promise."

He looked up at me, face still crumpled, like a piece of paper someone had crushed in the smalls of their hands and discarded for the trash. But after my reassuring smile was tossed in his direction, his continence cleared a bit and he managed a weak smile in return. It was the least I could do.

As always, the Yancey pack and the three Calder's convened around the beat-up old cart, a mass of wiry bodies, 'why's', 'are we there yet's' and 'I have to pee's'. Chaotic as usual. Even on reaping day, there was no such thing as 'calm' with us.

"Blaise!"

I jumped a little, my nerves getting to me, but I relaxed when I saw Cruz's impulsive face. His eyes were brown, the same color as his sister's, as was his hair, but his shoulders were broad and he was built like an athlete.

"They're calling for the kids to line up. You better get the munchkins together," he said, a similar anxiousness reflected in his voice.

"Where are the twins?"

"They're already in line."

Acknowledging the worried look on my face, he laughed. "Don't worry, they're not planning anything bad. They're already assigned to six months of community service after smashing the head peacekeeper's mailbox, remember?"

"How could I forget?"

Another thing about District 10: our peacekeepers don't shoot offenders on sight or whip them. We are very lucky for that. If we were in 11, Lawton and Leander would have been filled with more holes than a slice of Swiss cheese and thrown into a ditch, no doubt. Of all districts, this would be the one for those two. As I scanned the blurred faces of the surrounding throng, I caught sight of the straight blonde heads the twins. For those who were strangers to the boys, they appeared to be identical. If Lawton stood on the other side of a picture frame across from Leander, one could swear he was the other's reflection. But for their close friends, especially me, their differences were glaring. Leander had a small scar on his left cheek after he was hit with a stray rock spit from the path of a tractor, a slightly more slender face, and an extra smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. Lawton, on the other hand, had a slightly more square-jawed face, a cowlick on the back of his head and there was a fleck of gold in the iris of his right eye, which was blue.

My friends had always teased me about my unnaturally perceptive way of living. I couldn't explain it; it just happened. When I saw a tree, I didn't just see a tree. I saw the individual lines in the trunk, the pink blossoms, the arrow-head leaves and the way the slanted sunlight fell in criss-cross stencils down upon the ground. When I saw a face, especially a face of a friend, I memorized every feature, every imperfection, the way they talked, the little idiosyncrasies that they did subconsciously, like how Nova would always tuck her bangs behind her ear when she was thinking. As I've told you, it's automatic, as is my long-term memory. I can remember an entire conversation from second grade, even if it was over something as trivial as a cut knee or a daisy.

"You're a freak of nature," Meta would say, popping her gum.

"Thanks. I love you too," I always replied, making sure to paint on an extra coat of sarcasm.

"Alright, year fifteen's go there," a peacekeeper called, herding children into their respective sections behind the ropes. I watched as my grandparents and the younger children crowded to the front of the audience, the youngest ones waving and smiling when they caught sight of me. I wrapped a protective arm around Pepper's shoulders; they were trembling now.

I squeezed her arm and pulled my little cousins close on either side of me, trying to take away their fear. "It's going to be okay," I told them, "you just wait. As soon as this is over, I hear Grandma made some ginger ale for a picnic in the fields this afternoon."

Before we were separated into our proper age and gender groups, Piper rested his head briefly on my shoulder. His hazel eyes screamed with apprehension, and I ruffled his dark chocolate hair. "Chin up, scout. It'll be fine." I kissed Pepper on the crown of her head and pushed them forward.

Piper glanced back for a moment. "Thanks, Blaise."

Then he was gone, pulled away in a tide of bodies. I looked out at the place where they had just been for a moment before taking my place with the fifteen's next to Emory's short, stocky frame. His eyes were dark and his mouth was set in a hard line, and I knew he was probably grinding his teeth behind his lips. He was trying to be tough, but I knew he was just as scared as I was.

I looked up to the stage. I could see this year's mentor sitting next to two of the other district victors. Attendance wasn't mandatory for victors who weren't appointed that year's mentor, so not all of them showed. Believe it or not, 10 did have a decent amount of winners for such an underdog district; we were a very tight-knit district, and more often than not, when a young tribute was called, an older child would volunteer. It increased the survival rate of our tributes by a substantial amount, and most of them were strong from carrying bales of hay, working the fields and killing livestock. There were thirteen victors in all, and ten of them were still living. This year's mentor was 10's most recent victor from about seven years ago; Shenoah Tamerlane, who was about twenty-four years old. She was lean and had a build that resembled that of a greyhound. Her hair was scarlet and cut short, falling in a wreath of vermillion around her narrow face, reaching a few centimeters past her chin. Her eyes were pale blue, the color of melting ice, and the edges of the iris were covered in cracks of frosty white.

She looked like a victor.

Before I knew it, the mayor cleared her throat for silence and began the whole monotonous speech about the dark days, and when she finished, our escort wheeled the name sphere onto the center of the stage. Thank God we had a normal stylist. While his hair had been dyed orange and he had some tattoos across his temples, he seemed easy-going enough, and not quite as flamboyant as most escorts. His name was Pear Jelshin. Yes, I said "Pear". Our escort is named after a fruit.

"How about we shake things up?" he asked. "Ladies first! Surprise, huh?"

There was a weak laugh from the crowd. How creative.

He rummaged through the see-through ball, and I could swear the sound of rusting paper had magnified tenfold. Finally, he plucked a paper out and unrolled it, his gold eyes glittering. Not Pepper. Not Nova. Please.

"Thisbee Dryte."

There was a small gasp from a section of the audience, and a girl stepped out from the seventeen section, and I couldn't help feeling a sort of guilty relief. Her skin was the color of cocoa, her black hair falling down her back in hundreds of tight braids. Her strides were long, purposeful, her slim face confident, hazel eyes wiped clear of emotion, as if she wasn't expecting anyone to volunteer. No-one did; no-one ever did for anyone older than fourteen, at least very rarely.

Pear shook her hand amiably and waved her over so she stood next to Shenoah. "Nice to have you on board, honey," he smiled. She nodded rather woodenly, her feline face blank, now. "Gentlemen next," Pear called, reaching into the other ball.

There was a long, sickening pause.

"Piper Yancey!"

What?

No. NO. Impossible.

Without thinking about anything, I stepped forward, jostling through the crowd. What was I doing? What was I doing?

"I volunteer."

I heard Nova cry out. I heard Grandma whimper. I saw Piper fall to his knees, tears streaming down his face, getting dragged back into the twelve section by one of his friends. I met Palmer's gaze from the eighteens for a moment. His brown eyes were wide, disbelieving. They shouted at me, they clouted me across the head, the beat me to a pulp, until blood dripped from my nose and my skin began to bruise.

What the fuck have you done, Blaise?

I would know soon enough.


End file.
